Blood of a Lamb

Blood is life

But what life does it serve

If all we ever do

Is drunken ourselves with it

We desire to make love

But what love do we make

When we desire to take love

But refuse to give in order to make?

Is a kiss a tender brush

Where two lips meet?

No, perhaps a kiss isn't

But where two souls are bound

But the souls aren't imprisoned

Unless the hands of demonic

Greed, lust, power

Sentence them and find only one of them guilty

The poor lass, somber in her pool

Drowns from her tears of grief

Dies forever a virgin

Yet had lived shamefully as a whore

As she is buried and nursed

By the mother called Death

As she is released into the wild

From her cage, for she was an animal

But nothing more than a wine

A refreshing drink of blood she was

But blood is life, isn't it?